


He Who Doesn't Understand History

by lazyfatkitsune



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-04
Updated: 2013-05-04
Packaged: 2017-12-10 10:06:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/784841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazyfatkitsune/pseuds/lazyfatkitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He who doesn't understand history is doomed to repeat it. Arthur learns this the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Who Doesn't Understand History

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Unbetaed work.  
> 2) Warning for lack of research and rusty writing skills.

_He who doesn’t understand history is doomed to repeat it._

_-Pittacus Lore, I Am Number Four_

 

 

The first time it happened, Arthur remembers, it was in the bloody aftermath of the Stiles job. It was especially memorable, because, hell, who could ever forget having a pair of red-hot tweezers digging its way into your insides for a .38 bullet that had just buried itself snugly inside just moments before? Also to note was the fact that the cock-up and traitor of the architect in their team had just been blacklisted. He will personally settle that score once…

 

“Hold still, darling,” Eames had muttered, his sweaty brows creased neatly in a concentrated frown. His right hand was slow and steady, _but slow_ as he worked on extracting the bullet.

 

Arthur just barely held back, torn between a groan and a sharp retort. The pain was intrusive, burning…

 

“Oh, God…” he gritted his teeth, “Hurry the fuck up and get it out already!”

 

“Sorry, hold up, I got it,” Eames coaxed the bullet out and, Christ, the pulling sensation and the combined width of bullet and tweezers through his wound flooded his vision red for a long, mind numbing moment.

 

There was a long pause after that and ragged breathing was the only sound as the forger carefully stitched the wound shut.

 

“Where the hell are we?” Arthur breathed, trying desperately to keep his mind off the needle and thread winding itself in and out of skin and sensitised nerves. The surrounding was dim in the moonlight and he could not tell how long ago it had been since he was shot. It felt like minutes, days, years, but in truth, had probably just been hours.

 

“Nowhere you need to worry about,” Eames replied cheerfully around one last stitch, _finally_. “There we go, darling, all done.”

 

The stitches, Arthur remembers, even after the bandages had neatly covered it from sight, were dark and inky, like the tattoos under the white collared shirt that Eames wore that day. He can still recall every crisscross of each neat line pulling the short jagged wound shut.

 

“So, Arthur, darling, will you go out with me now?”

 

Yes, Arthur will always remember clearly how Eames’ words had felt like his fresh gunshot wound, torn apart and jagged around the edges, tinted with the smell of gunpowder.

 

\-------

 

The thing is this: Arthur is a point man; a competent one, he would like to think. At least the dreamshare community seem to think so, judging by the long list of job offers he usually had a chance to take a pick from.

 

The point is, a competent point man remembers all the relevant details and commits important information to memory.

 

This definitely did not explain why the open bleeding wound was at the exact same spot, made also by the same or similar bullet. Nor did it explain how Eames was leaning over him, worry creasing his eyebrows in that familiar frown, in the same setting as before. Once he seemed to have ascertained that Arthur seemed to be fine, amusement lightened the dark shade of his eyes and transformed his frown into a smirk.

 

“So, how ‘bout that date, darling?”

 

It was impossible to think when you are busy trying not to pass out, or finding an excuse to, but later on Arthur will pinpoint this event.

 

This was the second time.

 

\-------

 

It had to be a nightmarish loop, Arthur was sure of it. Eames’ arm was supportive around him as they stumbled along the maze of dark alleys.

 

“Come on, Arthur, keep moving,” Eames hissed, tugging at the back of his coat.

 

Footsteps sounded around them, the echoes in no particular synchronisation. His thoughts were jumbled from the agony of his injury, but Arthur was sure that there were at least four pursuers.

 

“Where are we going?” he gasped, even though by now, he already knew how Eames would answer. His vision was bleeding red and black spots with each jarring step.

 

“Don’t you worry your pretty head about it,” Eames whispered conspiratorially, leaning around the corner to check before half carrying, half dragging Arthur across to the next alley. “But you will owe me a date for that, alright?”

 

The third time, Arthur will never forget, because he naively thought, _third time’s the charm, right_ , and because Eames’ eyes were bright and brimming with hopeful interest.

 

\-------

 

The fourth time (or third repetition), dozens of shots were fired, at least five were close shaves, and he was resigned to this peculiar repetition of events.

 

At the doorway, both of them stumbled inside Eames’ safe house, adrenaline muffled through their veins.

 

“Well, darling, you certainly lead a dangerous life, don’t you?”

 

Eames’ smile was broad and sweet in a way that never appeared so when he was on a job. The corner of his eyes crinkled and he looked boyishly handsome, younger than his actual age, and absurdly attractive.

 

In that moment, Arthur could not help but grin back.

 

“I assure you, Eames, this does not happen in my everyday life.”

 

“I certainly hope not; I still have hopes of having a date with you, a peaceful one, that is.”

 

The hopeful, sheepish grin was much too bright that Arthur had to look away before it wilted away.

 

There was a soft sigh before Eames said, “Come on darling, let’s get you patched up.”

 

  _Something just had to be done_ , Arthur thought sullenly, _for better or worse_ , as Eames extracted the bullet and stitched the wound without further comment. This cannot continue any longer.

 

\-------

 

“Arthur, won’t you at least give me a chance?”

 

This was the fifth time, and Arthur was convalescing on the bed in the corner of the room. No, not just any room. This was, he was sure, Eames’ personal apartment, not just some random safe house that he kept across the globe. There were two photo frames bearing smiling faces on the bedside table by the lamp, and clothes were slung casually over a chair at the other side of the room.

 

The forger’s face, Arthur noted, was bright and hopeful and, worse of all, genuine in a way that he was sure Eames rarely was. In that moment, it was too much and Arthur realised that this cannot go on endless anymore. On both a professional and personal level, he could not allow this to drag on any further. Eames had brought Arthur to his _home_ , for God’s sake.

 

Arthur opened his mouth. The words were dying to come out, but he was voiceless in the light of his suddenly fading courage.

 

“Eames, I –”

 

\-------

 

“How was it? Sharp, no?”

 

Arthur blinks, disoriented; it is early afternoon and the warehouse is flooded in light. He sits up from one of the lawn chairs scattered around the warehouse, staring dumbly for a moment at the needle half buried at his wrist, before automatically removing it.

 

“You alright?” Yusuf’s voice breaks through the fogginess of his thoughts.

 

Right, the job, Arthur thinks, the latest development in the Somnacin batch that Yusuf was commissioned to work on, to accelerate the mind of the subject and increase lucidity. Sharper imaging and faster processing, which will be beneficial for their team on this mission. The job is a corporate one this time, and the approach was to create options for the mark at each level of the dream. Of course this means that the team will need to be one step ahead of the mark at every level.

 

In other words, just the right side of challenging, with the ever present hint of possible danger. A good change from the mundane jobs ever since Inception two years ago, Arthur decides.

 

“Arthur, are you alright?” Yusuf’s voice is the mix of impatience and distant concern of a scientist.

 

“Yes, I’m fine,” he replies, sharper than necessary.

 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Eames with the new architect that Arthur had picked out for this job, deep in a playful conversation.  As if sensing his attention, Eames turns around and raised a concerned eyebrow at them.

 

“Problem with the mix?” he asks, walking sedately towards them.

 

Arthur can remember a time when Eames would have frowned in concern and pushed harder for answers. But that young compulsiveness has already mellowed with experience and the forger no longer wears his heart so blatantly on his sleeve.

 

The stitches from Arthur’s injury that fateful night years ago are long gone, and physically, the scar has faded to a neat round mark.

 

“I think we need to work more on the lucidity aspect...”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope the story is understandable. Basically, Arthur relives scenarios from when Eames tried to ask him out years ago. As to which version is the actual one, I leave it to your imagination.
> 
> I may or may not come back and edit this when I am awake and possibly more sober. Clearly my grammar is extremely rusty.
> 
> Constructive criticism is much appreciated.


End file.
